


Diamond Glints on Snow

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 07:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19246573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Mikkel sets off on a quest to save an old friend and ends up finding a new perspective as well.





	Diamond Glints on Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shadowcatxx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowcatxx/gifts).



> An offering to the Saint who showed me how lovely the Nordics are <3
> 
> If anyone can tell me another story that involves a "grove" of flowers in a cave, I will be tickled :P

_Do not stand at my grave and weep._

_I am not there. I do not sleep._

_I am a thousand winds that blow._

_I am the diamond glints on snow._

_I am the sunlight on ripened grain._

_I am the gentle autumn rain._

_When you awaken in the morning’s hush_

_I am the sweet uplifting rush . . ._

 

PART I

Mikkel had become far too familiar with the scent of suffering.

It brought him back to the sickbeds of his parents, neither of whom had gone swiftly to death. He had spent many days and nights changing bandages that smelled of coppery blood and emptying pails of half-digested food that left the sour stench of bile in his nose. Worst of all, though, was the sweet. Beneath the sweat of a bundled fever and the tang of wounds which would not scab, there was the fetid reek of rotting meat. No matter how many times he encountered it, the sickening sweetness made him gag.

He stifled it now, even though Tino was still mostly asleep. The poor thing; Mikkel’s heart broke at the sight of him lifeless in bed when, just weeks before, he had been livelier than most in the village and always eager to get something done.

For the tenth time that morning, Berwald laid a fresh compress on his husband’s forehead. His large, calloused hands were not accustomed to gentling, but he’d evicted the healers when they told him nothing could be done.

“What was it they said?” Mikkel asked. “What were their exact words?”

“We can do nothing but wait and see if it takes him,” Berwald rumbled, his voice even flatter than normal. He kept his icy gaze trained on Tino’s face as if memorizing the details of it: flushed cheeks, chapped lips, a new sheen of sweat already glistening on the curved bridge of his nose.

“It won’t,” Mikkel said. He had been raised to believe that if one had no hope, there was no sense in even getting out of bed in the morning. Not that Tino _could_ get out of bed right now, but that was beside the point.

Berwald sighed, but he said nothing. He didn’t have to; he and Mikkel were brothers in arms, and after nearly a decade of training and battling together Mikkel could understand his silences as fluently as spoken words. In that gust of breath and the sag of those great shoulders, Mikkel heard all the things his stoic comrade would not say: _I am afraid. I don’t know what I’m going to do. If something happens to my love—_

Mikkel didn’t let either of them finish the dark thought. He said, “I’ll make sure it doesn’t take him.”

At last Berwald turned to look at him, brow low on his eyes. “Do not make promises you can’t keep.”

Mikkel shook his head. “I _can_ keep it. Everyone knows rime tears—”

Berwald closed his eyes. “I told you, Mick—”

“—can make miracles happen,” he finished, insistent hands on Berwald’s shoulders. “It can help him.”

“They are stories,” Berwald said, shrugging out of his grasp. “Nothing more. And even if they were true, the rime are all dead, or nearly. And even if you did find one, he wouldn’t help you. They hate humans.”

“Not all rime are cold-hearted,” Mikkel said, then realized how silly his words sounded. The strange beings were defined by their chill; where in humans a heart beat warm blood, a rime was made of ice and snow. There were countless tales about them, frigid beauties who lured travellers to their deaths or winter ghosts who guided lost men through blizzards with their haunting calls. Some viewed them as legends to be venerated; others saw them only as animals to be reaped of resources. In Mikkel’s village alone were five self-declared rime hunters who spent weeks away at a time, setting out with their dog and their nets, then returning with things they had traded their spoils for in the other villages. Mikkel had never seen a rime tear himself, but he knew the basics of them. They were frozen solid, because the rime were so cold. They could heal the ails of whomever swallowed one. No rime who gave tears to a hunter survived to weep again.

Mikkel thought it was cruel, miracles or no. Many of the village shared his view, but not enough to refuse the goods those hunters brought from the wealthier traders. Mikkel did not intend to hunt anything today.

“Then how are you going to get a tear?” Berwald asked, arms crossed over his broad chest.

Mikkel would have smiled in the face of doubt, but he couldn’t bring himself to with the sickly Tino only a few steps away. “I’ll ask for one,” he replied. “I’ll offer a favor as payment, since they don’t use gold.”

He wasn’t sure yet what he, a human with little more to his name than skill with a sword, could offer one of these creatures who lived outside of the society humans held so dear. But he’d figure that part out when the time came.

Berwald was beginning to grimace, but before he could say anything Tino drew their attention with a weak cough. They were both at his side in seconds, Berwald smoothing back his hair and rumbling soothingly while Mikkel offered him a drink of water.

Tino took a small sip from the tilted glass and looked blearily from his husband to his friend. “Did I sleep ’til winter?”

Mikkel chuckled. “No, it’s still autumn. Why?”

Tino shivered. “It’s cold.”

Mikkel and Berwald exchanged a glance, levity fading. With the crackling fire just outside the bedroom and all those blankets, he could not be cold. Berwald held a hand to Tino’s forehead and Mikkel had to suppress a wince at the pain that flashed over the strong man’s features.

“I’ll get another blanket,” he said, and left the room.

Mikkel busied himself giving Tino another sip of water. He had grown up alongside both of these people; they had always been his dearest companions, for as long as he could remember. He could picture the trio galloping through the village, chasing untamed puppies, their parents calling them half-wild pups themselves. Mikkel always in the head, hollering so everyone knew his company was on the move; Berwald following, silent so he could notice things others missed; and little Tino taking up the rear, shorter legs working hard to keep up, cheeks perpetually rosy with effort and joy. The leader, the strategist, and—though he had never officially received the title—the diplomat. Tino was snow packed between the jagged ice edges of Mikkel and Berwald, at once keeping them connected and preventing them from clashing. Without him . . .

There would be no thinking of it. Mikkel gave Tino’s nose a gentle tap, which had become their affectionate touch after Berwald and Tino handfasted. “I’m going away,” he murmured, quieted by the universal hush known to sickrooms. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

Tino’s eyes shone with oily tears. “I may not see you again.”

“Shhh,” Mikkel chided softly. “You will see me, and I’ll be bringing you back something to make you better. Just close your eyes, and when you open them again, I’ll be here.”

Tino nodded weakly, eyelids drooping. Whether he believed the scheme or he was just too exhausted to argue, it was impossible to say.

Mikkel retreated from the room and backed into Berwald. “Well,” Mikkel said, “I’ll be seeing you.”

Berwald’s nostrils flared, but he knew better than to press a point once Mikkel’s mind had been made up. “It’s a fool’s errand,” he said, one last stab from his frightened heart.

Mikkel only smiled, sadness gleaming in his eyes. “Good thing I’m a fool.”

Berwald sighed, but there was a rueful smile quirking his lips. He shifted the blanket in his arms so he could lock fingers with Mikkel and pull him into a brief but crushing embrace. Then he stepped back and said with formality, “I will await your return.”

He went into the bedroom without another word. Mikkel lingered long enough to watch the mighty warrior tenderly tuck the blankets beneath Tino’s chin before he set off with new vigor. No war cry could fortify him as much as the sight of his family in need.

 

PART II

There was a time decades past when one could not traverse the snowfields south of the village without encountering least one rime. They wintered on the ice off the coast, but when the yearly melt came they moved inland with the white bears. Now, in autumn, whether or not the few remaining rime had moved out was impossible to say. The rime hunters had not yet returned from their latest excursion, which Mikkel chose to take as a good sign.

He crossed much open tundra—broken up only by coarse shrubbery poking from the snow and the occasional ice formation through which the breeze howled mournfully—without any luck. He had been this way enough times on hunting trips, intercepting the annual migration of caribou, that he knew the land despite its sameness. He knew where the ground beneath the top-snow shifted from steady permafrost to glacial ice. Some years, great sections of it broke off and floated away into the sea; others, icebergs came in crashing into the existing ice and wreaking havoc despite their slow speed. Presently Mikkel climbed over a small ridge where the ice had buckled beneath the force of such an intruder. It wasn’t these raised areas one had to be wary of, however. It was the invisible gaps between the foundation ice, where the snow would give beneath your feet and there would be nothing but a yawning crevasse below.

Mikkel stopped now and removed the pack from his back. He’d brought some dried meat along, so he chewed some of it. He didn’t know how long he would be out here. He could conceivably hunt something if he ran out of food, but he hadn’t seen anything yet. Truth be told, he disliked these snowfields. He would always rather be outdoors than in, but he liked the forests of blue spruce and the rocky mountains. Places he could take cover, places he could see what was around him. Here everything was so flat and endlessly white, and he felt vulnerable. He started to put his pack on his shoulders, then on second thought removed one of his smaller blades. Juvenile, perhaps, but it still made him feel better.

The sun was high above when he reached the top of the tallest ice ridge yet. He pushed his hood back off his head and took a deep breath, scanning his surroundings. No rime in sight. No hint of any other life. The village was just a vague blur on the horizon behind him. Tino was there, dying, and Mikkel was out gallivanting through the snow. Was that really what a friend was supposed to do? _I’m trying to save him,_ he reminded himself. But this plan sounded a lot more straightforward in Berwald’s warm home.

Mikkel sighed and started down the ridge. This side was much steeper than the other, so he would have to be care—

He slipped, slid, bounced over a hump of snow, and crashed straight through where he landed. He saw the blue walls of the hidden chasm, the depthless black at the bottom, and he scrabbled helplessly at the edge. His whole body was hanging inside, his arm could never hold himself up and he could get a grip anyway, he was falling—!

A hand grasped his.

Mikkel registered this a moment before he registered that the hand was trying and struggling to pull him up, so he swung up his other arm—his knife already lost to the crevasse—and then managed to get a knee up over the edge. It crumbled a little beneath this focused weight, but then he was crawling to safety and collapsing to his side, breathless with adrenaline. He closed his eyes briefly, thanking the gods for sparing him, then opened them and found himself staring up at the most beautiful man he’d ever seen.

None of the stories Mikkel had been told of the rime could compare to the real thing. He’d been told they didn’t wear bulky furs like humans did, for they didn’t need to keep warm, but he never expected the alternative to be a delicate cloak that seemed thin as a spider’s web and sparkled in the sunlight like morning frost. The rime’s head, arms, and even feet were bare and his skin was whiter than fresh snow. His hair had little more color; it was only his lips, the palest pink, and his eyes that held pigment, and what gorgeous eyes they were. Violet-azure-cerulean-indigo, all the shades of the darkest shadows of snow, the deepest currents of the sea, and the memory of the precise moment of twilight when the last drop of sunset falls from the night sky.

Then the moment passed and the rime ran away.

Mikkel leapt to his feet. “Hey! Wait!” He gave chase, ignoring the invisible danger every step presented. “I don’t want to hurt you, I just want to talk! Please!”

At this, the rime halted. He turned around and held out his hand, palm facing Mikkel, who stopped here he stood, panting.

Slowly, with elegant steps, the rime walked closer to Mikkel until only an arm’s length separated them. He moved more like an animal than a man, and he regarded Mikkel with the sidelong distrust of a predator uncertain of attack or retreat.

It hadn’t occurred to Mikkel that perhaps the rime couldn’t speak. They communicated in old legends, but none of the hunters ever mentioned holding a conversation with one.

Mikkel held up his hands. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said again, enunciating as if that would bridge a language barrier. “I came out here to find a rime because your tears can bring people back to life, and someone dear to me is dying. If you would agree to give me a tear, I would owe you a life debt.” He shook his head. “I already owe you for my own life, so this will be two debts. If there is anything at all I can do for you, I will try my best to see it done.”

The rime observed him in silence through this speech, a slight furrow between his brows. When Mikkel was finished, he lifted his chin slightly and said, “You are wrong.”

Mikkel shivered. His voice was low but soft, like crisp snow underfoot or frost crackling on pine needles. “I don’t know how rime do things, but when you save a human’s life they owe you.”

“No.” The rime’s face did not change, aside from that slight confusion. He looked as Mikkel had pictured goddesses looking: flawless, face unmarred by lines of worry or laughter. “Rime tears cannot bring anything back to life. They can only restore things to the way they should be.”

That made no sense to Mikkel, since surely no living thing was meant to be dead, but he didn’t want to argue and send the rime running again. “Well, that’s alright. Tino isn’t dead, just very sick. He needs your help.”

The rime shook his head. “I cannot help him. Humans do not understand rime, and never will. You destroy us and think you are saving lives, but you’re not.”

“I told you I don’t want to hurt you,” Mikkel said. “I’m not a hunter. I hate them. What they do to rime is wrong.”

The rime turned away. “No. I can’t choose to weep, anyway. You came here for nothing.”

“Please.” Mikkel reached out and grabbed the rime’s wrist. He half-expected to feel cold even through his glove, but it was no different than holding a human’s arm. “I’m desperate.”

The rime went still, perhaps hearing the note of need in his voice. “Is this . . . Tino . . . your mate?”

Mikkel blinked, caught off guard. “No. He’s my friend. You could say we’re like brothers. Why? Would that make a difference?”

“No.” The rime heaved a gusty sigh, then turned to face him again. “Nothing you can do or say will change that I cannot help you.”

Mikkel couldn’t stand to hear the words. He would not return to Berwald empty-handed after promising to help them. He lowered himself to his knees, holding the rime’s hand in both of his own. “Please,” he begged. “At least come back with me. Just come and see him, even if you can’t do anything. Please.”

Perhaps if the rime saw the suffering, he reasoned, he would be as close to tears as Mikkel was whenever he laid eyes on sickly little Tino.

The rime stared at him for a long moment, unreadable emotions battling in those iridescent eyes. Mikkel’s own words— _not all rime are cold-hearted_ —echoed in his mind. Would this rime prove him right? Or would he just laugh in his face?

At last, he inclined his head slightly. “Alright. I will go with you. But you must promise safety to me.” A small gesture, a flick of his fingers. “This can be your life debt.”

It would only count as part of the debt to Mikkel’s tally, but he jumped up with joy anyway. “Thank you.” He gave the delicate hand a grateful squeeze, then released it sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Mikkel. Friends call me Mick.” He offered his hand anew. “Nice to meet you.”

The rime stared at him again, then gingerly offered his hand as well. “You may call me Bjørn.”

Mikkel shook his hand and laughed. “You don’t look much like a bear.”

Bjørn’s eyes widened, first at the physical greeting and even more at the sight of Mikkel’s infamous larger-than-life laugh. When he had recovered, he said, “Humans worry too much about appearance. You should care more about what things truly are.”

“Yeah, now that you mention it . . .” Mikkel stroked his scruffy chin thoughtfully. “It’ll be a lot easier to get you into the village if everyone thinks you’re human. So you’ll have to wear something else.”

“Like what?”

 

PART III

“This is ridiculous,” Bjørn grumbled, tripping over his own feet for the third time. “All of it is so clunky. I don’t know how you can move in it.”

“Because we have to,” Mikkel said, valiantly stifling a grin, “or we’ll freeze. You’ll get used to it.”

He privately hoped the reassurance was false, because watching the rime waddle in the makeshift shoes Mikkel had wrapped for him from hide was downright adorable—as was seeing his willowy body drown in Mikkel’s donated cloak. Bjørn had adamantly refused mittens, claiming he needed to feel the air. The cloak went well past his arms, so Mikkel didn’t argue with him.

When they neared the outskirts, Bjørn visibly stiffened and Mikkel, without much in the way of thought, placed a hand on his waist as he would to a nervous Tino. “It’s alright,” he said. “Just stay close to me and keep your head down.”

Bjørn glanced sharply at him, then pulled his hood lower over his head and edged slightly closer to Mikkel’s side.

With winter fast approaching there was no time to dawdle; the village was bustling with activity, everyone mending or carving or training. Even if Mikkel had somehow forgotten where Berwald lived, he would have no trouble finding it. People were avoiding the silent home, at once wishing to respect the hardship inside and paranoid the mysterious illness might spread to them or their kin.

“In here,” Mikkel said after standing with the door open for a moment. Bjørn stopped staring at a pair of nearby hunters long enough to cross the threshold, but he turned around immediately, disgust plain on his face: “What are they doing?”

“Butchering the meat,” Mikkel replied. They had a caribou bleeding on a tripod, its head and limbs scattered on the ground with one of the village dogs waiting nearby for a moment of distraction.

“No.” The rime pointed to a third hunter who was sawing the points off the beast’s antlers.

“Oh. He’ll make them into something. Sometimes we stud armor with them, or we put them on crowns or necklaces.” He shrugged at the rime’s bewilderment. “It’s for luck. Some people believe the spirit of the animal will protect you if you carry a piece of its body.”

Bjørn shook his head. “Humans should not believe such things.”

Mikkel’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t think it’s good to be connected to nature?”

“By killing it?” Bjørn asked, his own brow arched. “Rime do not need gods or spirits. We only need ourselves.”

“Sounds lonely,” Mikkel remarked.

Bjørn opened his mouth, but just then Berwald stepped from the bedroom with an empty plate and stopped in shock. “Mick—”

“This is Bjørn,” Mikkel said quickly. He gently removed the hood from the pale blond hair. “A kind rime.”

Bjørn and Berwald narrowed their eyes at the word _kind._ They sized each other up for a moment, then Berwald said, “Are you going to help us?”

Perhaps it was the flat tone or the plain doubt laced in the words, but for whatever reason Bjørn tipped up his chin. “I have come to see Tino.”

Mikkel found himself smiling, despite everything. Berwald gave him a look of mixed disapproval and _I hope you know what you’re doing_ , then stepped aside so Bjørn and Mikkel could enter the bedchamber.

The smell of sickness was even stronger after the hours he’d spent in the clean air, but Bjørn showed no sign of being bothered. He crept close to the bed, taking in Tino’s flushed cheeks and pallid forehead.

“He’s sleeping,” Berwald said, a warning rumble.

“I will not wake him,” Bjørn murmured, without heat. Mikkel watched him closely as he trailed his pale hands over the blankets, fingertips barely brushing the surface. Was he feeling something, sensing the source of the illness? Or was he just putting on a show so Mikkel wouldn’t feel like a fool?

After a long moment, Bjørn stepped back. “I cannot weep for him.”

Berwald turned on Mikkel. “I told—”

“But.” Bjørn turned around, levelling a calm but intense gaze on both men. “There may be another way.”

Mikkel and Berwald exchanged a glance, hardly daring to hope, and asked in unison: “How?”

“There is . . .” Bjørn trailed off as if searching for the proper word. “A herb. A flower. The petals are put into honeyed water. Ice water.”

Mikkel and Berwald exchanged another glance.

“Doubt me if you wish.” The rime crossed his arms over his chest, pouting defensively.

Mikkel considered him. “It’s worth a try, Ber.”

“Where is this flower?” Berwald asked, still suspicious.

“Through the pass. In a grove on the other side.”

“Madness,” Berwald proclaimed. “The pass will close any day. The first good storm will seal it until spring.”

Mikkel stared at Bjørn, then at Berwald, then over at Tino. A small voice inside him spoke words he didn’t want to be true, so he ignored it and said again, “It’s worth a try.”

Berwald followed his gaze to their dear dying friend, his beloved, his Tino. His shoulders rolled back, in acceptance or resignation. He looked at Mikkel, and his eyes again said what he could not: _I don’t want you to go. If I lose you and Tino, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m afraid._

Mikkel clapped a hand down on his brother’s shoulder. “I know.” He offered his free hand, and Berwald took it to again crush them together in an embrace. This time, however, Mikkel whispered to him: “If I don’t see you again. Thank you.”

Berwald pulled back, brow low on harsh blue eyes. Brothers in arms did not need to say thank you; they had saved each other’s lives too many times to count. This time, Berwald could not go with him, but he wouldn’t tarnish Mikkel’s word or his quest.

“Be seeing you,” he said.

They stopped in Mikkel’s house to gather more supplies, and Bjørn watched Mikkel in silence for several minutes before he said, “I’ve always wondered what human tears look like.”

Mikkel glanced at him. “I don’t cry easily. Tino did. Does.” He shoved a tinder box into his pack, then some small pieces of firewood he’d cut. He didn’t plan on ending up somewhere they needed a fire to survive the night—there were plenty of caves on the near side of the pass—but now was the time to be better safe than sorry. “They just look like water. Why, what do rime tears look like?”

Bjørn shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen one.”

Mikkel blinked. “Have you ever met another rime?”

“Yes. In passing. We don’t have family and friends.” The rime glanced around Mikkel’s house, far smaller and less homey than Berwald’s. “You have no family, either.”

“No.” Mikkel slung his pack over his shoulders. “But I’ve had plenty of offers, I hope you realize.”

“Plenty,” Bjørn agreed, nodding.

“Well, a few,” Mikkel demurred. “Anyway, there’s been interest. And I would like to have someone, someday. I just haven’t found the right person.” This was a conversation he’d hated having with Berwald and Tino, and an inhuman stranger wasn’t much better. “What about you? How do rime attract mates?”

“We don’t,” Bjørn replied. “We are born as we are from the wind and ice. We don’t change from small to big like plants and animals do. We just are, until we are no longer.”

Mikkel was tired of thinking about things being no longer, so he turned away and opened his door. “Let’s go. The sooner we’re off, the sooner we’re back. Put your hood up.”

They had only done twenty minutes of walking when they were interrupted. Mikkel heard the bark of the dog before he saw them: three broad men, all of them armed with blades and bows, with the bright red-and-blue braiding around their ankles that marked them as rime hunters. The dog continued to give tongue, growing more and more agitated as they approached. They had told Mikkel that she was trained to recognize the scent of rime. Bjørn had no scent as far as Mikkel could smell, but animals had damning judgement.

“Mick!” called one of the hunters. “What is that you have?”

“Stay close,” Mikkel muttered, herding Bjørn behind him with one arm while the other lifted to wave and he put a smile on his face. “Good day to you, boys. Did the latest go well?”

They were only a few strides away now, with the dog barking her head off between them. Two had their faces hidden up to the eyes with scarves, but the one who had spoken was uncovered and appeared to be amused. He kicked the dog into silence and said, “You wouldn’t be trying to hide a rime from us, Mick.”

The friendly tone fooled no one. He removed the blade from his belt. “We’re just passing through. Let’s go our separate ways and live long, happy lives.”

The scarved hunters exchanged glances with quirked eyebrows, then slid out blades of their own. The dog began to growl.

Mikkel squared his shoulders. “Last warning.”

The leader laughed. “I think you have it backward, son. We should be giving the warnings. We outnumber you, if you hadn’t noticed. And all we want is a rime. It’s not like you’d be risking your life for something important.”

“Actually, I would be. He saved my life. So I owe him.” Mikkel took up a combat stance. “Don’t trouble yourselves with numbers. Just make the decision.”

The leader shook his head, rueful. It would be unusual for anyone to walk away from a battle once a challenge had been uttered; to attack in rage was to break the code of the people, but to calmly rout another was a common occurrence between the fighting sort. “It’s a shame,” the leader said. “You’re a fine young man. We’ll not leave you helpless and burdensome. You’ll die whole, as a warrior, with dignity.”

“Oh,” Mikkel said, surprised. “That’s interesting.”

“What?”

“I didn’t think you knew what dignity was.”

The leader scowled and ordered his scarved brethren, “Get the creature.”

Then they were all on the move, Mikkel and the leader lunging forward and clashing with the sharp clang of iron. As Mikkel blocked his strikes again and again with more and more effort each time, he put together the details as Berwald had taught him: _They’ve been travelling longer than I have. The dog will bite me low. The other two will net Bjørn and come to finish me off._ There was no room for emotion on the battlefield. He made his plan and executed it.

He risked some precious energy to parry and landed a weaker blow than he’d hoped to the leader’s side. Still, it was enough to stagger him and Mikkel took this opportunity to dispatch the dog with a swift stab to her chest. Then he was bellowing in pain as the leader slashed his swordarm. Mikkel scrambled backward, desperately testing his arm and nearly dropping his weapon when the pain seared through his muscles. He leapt away from another swing and cringed at the sneer on the leader’s face. He was toying with him. _So much for dignity._ Mikkel would not have that ugly face as the last thing he saw before he died. He lowered his gaze, watching the droplets of blood fall from his hand to the snow below. He hadn’t expected failure to be so swift, but he had always known he would die by a sword.

 _I’m sorry, Tino,_ he thought. _I’m sorry, Berwald. I’m sorry, Bjo_ —

And then the world turned white.

 

PART IV

For a moment Mikkel saw nothing but swirling snow; when his vision cleared, he realizes all three of the hunters each had a small storm of snow surrounding them. He glanced over at Bjørn and was shocked to see his beautiful eyes were a ghost white like the milky eyes of the blind. Then Mikkel realized this was most likely their only chance to get clear of these hunters; they took too much pride in their hunts to back down and surrendering their quarry would be a harsher blow to their ego than having it taken from them.

So Mikkel shifted his blade to his non-dominant hand and dealt the same blow he’d been given, slicing into the biceps of the scarved hunters’ swordarms. He did the same to the leader, then gave him a healthy kick that sent him sprawling.

Moments later, the snow swarms faded and the hunters scurried to huddle together, clutching their bleeding wounds and staring at Bjørn in unbridled horror.

“What monster have you dredged from hell?” the leader demanded, once he was back on his feet.

Mikkel hadn’t known that rime could summon snow squalls, but it was even more of a shock to find out that even the hunters didn’t know about it. But the bizarre ability had just saved them, so he only said, “I could have killed you, but I didn’t. Don’t make me regret it.”

The scarved hunters looked over at Bjørn, whose eyes had returned to their natural color and now sparked with anger. The leader glared at Bjørn, then Mikkel, then cast a final irritated look toward his felled dog before turning and leading his comrades away. Mikkel watched them long enough to make sure they weren’t changing their minds—they were cursing loudly and wrapping their wounds as they walked but showed no sign of turning back—then stepped over to Bjorn. The rime was still partially caught up in the net they’d thrown on him, so Mikkel freed him with his good hand. He expected Bjørn to thank him or perhaps worry over his arm, but the rim went straight to the dog instead. He knelt beside her and, as he’d done to Tino, hovered his fingertips over the motionless body.

Mikkel watched until he couldn’t bear the quiet. “I’m sorry I had to kill her, but you can’t negotiate with a dog.”

“Animals are only taught to hate.”

“So are humans,” Mikkel pointed out, tearing a strip from the bottom of his tunic.

Bjørn looked up, surprised. He stood up and took the piece of fabric. “Let me help you.” He wrapped it tightly around Mikkel’s upper arm with surprising gentleness. The slash was more shallow than Mikkel had first thought, but pressure on it still burned. To distract himself from the pain, Mikkel said, “Why don’t rime use that power, if you all have it? That could save a lot of you from hunters.”

Bjørn’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “I have never done that before. I didn’t even know rime could do that.”

Mikkel hung his pack on his good shoulder so he wouldn’t have to lift his arm. “Why did it happen, then?”

“I don’t know.” The rime gave a small shrug. “Do you know everything about how your body works?”

Mikkel opened his mouth, then closed it. “Well. No. Good point.” He smiled. “Either way, thank you for saving me again. You’re pretty useful to have around.”

Bjørn looked up at him, then let his lips curl into a small imitation of a smile. “You saved me, too. Now we can be even.”

Mikkel nodded warmly. “Sounds good to me.”

Like his relationship with Berwald, they would save each other without tallying the score. Mikkel had never built up trust this fast, but he supposed that made sense since he’d never met a rime before. Things were different with Bjørn, and he wasn’t sure if it was because he was rime or just because he was _him_ , but either way it was alright.

“Were they your friends?” Bjørn asked.

Mikkel blinked, taken out of his thoughts. “No, not at all. Why?”

Bjørn shrugged, stepping over a clump of grass a hare had dug up hours before. “They called you Mick. You said friends call you that.”

“Oh. No.” He shook his head. “They weren’t really being friendly. They were being mean. Humans do that sometimes.”

Bjørn’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand humans very much.”

“Me neither,” Mikkel admitted.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, until Bjørn spoke again: “Can I call you Mick?”

Mikkel stared at him in surprise. He had thought nicknames too informal for rime.

“Not to be mean,” Bjørn added hastily. “To be friendly.”

Now Mikkel grinned. “Sure. If you want. I’d like that.”

Bjørn walked with his head held high, pleased with this development and to be freed from the clunky shoes and cloak now that they were far from the village’s sights. “You are my first friend, Mick.”

“No,” Mikkel corrected, “I’m your best friend.”

“What is the difference?”

“Best friends carry heavy back-packs for you when your arm hurts.”

“Oh. Then maybe not.”

Mikkel tipped his head back to laugh.

They crossed the tundra with a decent speed, to Mikkel’s pleasant surprise. Bjørn didn’t exhibit the typical fitness of a human, but he had no trouble keeping pace with Mikkel. He was so flawless it was impossible to picture him red-cheeked or sweaty with exertion. For that matter: “Can you sweat?”

Bjørn considered this as if it was a philosophical query. “No, I don’t think so.”

A few minutes later when Mikkel offered him some meat to chew the rime said, “No, thank you.”

“You’re not hungry?”

“Rime don’t need food.”

As daylight began to fade, Bjørn commented, “It’s strange that humans can’t see in the dark but all other animals can.”

Mikkel shivered a little, trying his hardest not to be disturbed. Not because he felt actively endangered by Bjørn—as far as he knew, a human had never been harmed by a rime—but because of a subconscious, innate sense that he, as a human, was so very different . . . Though he didn’t put the thoughts into concrete terms, he wondered what would become of humans—who couldn’t see in the dark, who needed warmth and food and sleep, who relied on teamwork to survive—and rime—who lived alone in the cold and valued something deeper. It didn’t feel like both could exist in the same world, but Mikkel couldn’t say—nor did he wanted to think about—who would be the victor.

The ground sloped downward to the shore of a frozen lake, on the other side of which was the pass. The lake was a valuable food source in the warm months, but for now it was covered in a layer of ice. It rarely froze solid; it was difficult to be sure just how thick this top layer was. At its thickest it could easily hold the weight of a man. At its thinnest, it could not be crossed.

Mikkel searched for the largest rock he could find and tossed it overhand out onto the ice. It bounced and skidded, left a sizable dent, but did not crash through. Mikkel put one foot on the ice, tested his weight. The ice fractured but it held, and of course the ice was always weakest around the edge. Probably the rest of it was safe.

“It isn’t safe,” said Bjørn behind him.

Mikkel didn’t turn. “It’s been a cold autumn. I think it’s thick enough.”

Bjørn came around to face him, solemn. “I know it isn’t safe, Mick. You don’t trust me?”

Mikkel took in the slight confusion on his face. Of course Bjørn didn’t understand why Mikkel felt like this. Mikkel himself hardly understood it. His pain was making him irritable as well, and his nerves. He just wanted to keep moving and he didn’t want to justify the time it would take to walk all the way around this massive lake.

A snowflake fell.

Mikkel watched it float in front of him, all the way down to join those already on the ground, then looked to Bjørn. “Did you do that?”

The rime shook his head. “It’s snowing.” He held out his hands, palms up. “I think a storm is coming.”

“You can sense that,” Mikkel said, dread roiling in his belly.

“Yes.”

Mikkel shook his head now. “Then we need to go across. If we get stuck, Tino doesn’t get help.” He touched Bjørn’s shoulder with a gloved hand. “If you can sense how thin it is, can’t you sense the thickest spots?”

Bjørn looked at his hand, then up at him, uncharacteristically shy. “Perhaps.”

Mikkel nodded. “Then it’s worth a try. Lead the way.”

And so they began their journey across the lake. Their first steps caused loud cracks to spread, but the ice held them and they kept moving. Each step was torturously slow enough that Mikkel wondered if it would have been faster to go the long way on sure footing, but they couldn’t turn back and tread over weakened ice. Bjørn was clearly deep in concentration, and Mikkel hoped he could trust him. He followed the rime’s small footprints, but his mind wandered to the treasure of the quest, the flower. The tiny voice was whispering to him again, but he did his best to block it out. He had to rely on this creature, whether he liked it or not. He’d killed a dog and wounded men of his village for this rime. They were, apparently, friends.

“Bjørn,” Mikkel said slowly, “why did you save my life the first time?”

The rime went still. “Because you didn’t look like a hunter.”

“. . . That’s all? You would have saved any human but a hunter?”

“Perhaps.”

“You don’t know for sure if a human life matters to you?”

Bjørn halted suddenly and turned around. “I sensed it. I sensed that I should save you. I could feel . . .”

Mikkel’s eyes widened at the sudden intensity. His voice dropped to a murmur. “Feel what?”

Bjørn’s gaze fell, clouding with emotion that looked very much like sadness, then lifted and sharpened again. “You would not understand. Or you wouldn’t believe me.” He turned his back on him. “It doesn’t matter.”

Perhaps he wouldn’t have believed—or wouldn’t have wanted to—if someone had said this to him in the past. But he didn’t want to be obtuse and hateful like the hunters. He stepped to Bjørn’s side, reached for him—and before the rime could cry out that _it’s not safe there!_ they were both plunged into the water.

 

PART V

“You distracted me!” Bjørn’s cry was garbled with mouthfuls of water, but he had no trouble dragging himself up out of the jagged hole in the ice.

Mikkel, on the other hand, was floundering and choking. Every time he grabbed for an edge it came away in his hands. He was ot a skilled swimmer at all and he could not keep himself above water and think about escape at the same time. Everything within him was replaced with fear and cold.

“Mick! Mikkel!” A hardness came into Bjørn’s voice now. “Come here!”

Mikkel saw him and tried his best to swim closer. He kept his eyes locked on Bjørn’s beautiful face. Another frigid splash of water had him spluttering, but he made it to the edge. His breaths came shallow and shaky, vicious fire racing through his veins.

Bjørn grabbed Mikkel’s arm and hauled him up with all the strength he could summon. Mikkel tried to help him, but his legs were not obeying. His wounded arm wasn’t pleased with it, but Mikkel forced it to hook over the top of the ice and assist Bjørn’s attempts. They tried, tried again, and at last heaved Mikkel up onto an area that would not shatter under his waterlogged weight.

Mikkel rolled onto his back, gasping. His teeth were chattering so hard he could barely hear himself speak: “I—I n-need—”

“Warmth,” Bjørn finished, already pulling the sodden cloak and pack off him. “You must make it to the grove. There is warmth there.”

Mikkel couldn’t focus on the words. The what? The grove? He’d never seen the grove. Perhaps it wasn’t real. Perhaps they were lost. He just wanted to sleep, nothing else was important.

“Wake, Mick,” Bjørn said, sounding breathless. Wasn’t that impossible? And why was it so dark? Mikkel realized his eyes were closed and opened them. He was facing the way they’d come, and his legs were stretched out in front of him. Someone was dragging him?

“Wake, Mick.”

The sky was on fire. He couldn’t see, it was so bright, but as he watched fluffy flakes floated down like angel feathers and landed on his eyelashes. He wanted to tell someone how beautiful it was, but his lips were frozen shut.

“Wake.”

Now the air was too thick to breathe. But it was _warm_ , and Mikkel gulped in as much as his trembling chest would allow. He saw little in the orange-tinted shadows—they were in a cave of some sort with sunset sneaking in—but they could make out Bjørn crouching in front of him. The snowflakes rested on his hair and shoulders, fringing him in soft white.

“Angel,” Mikkel tried to say, his mouth clogged with something thick.

Bjørn said nothing, just began removing Mikkel’s tunic and trousers.

“Mmm—” Mikkel tried moving his hands to cover himself but they were no longer taking his orders.

“Trust me,” Bjørn whispered, then again hooked his arms beneath Mikkel’s and dragged him. His feet knocked against something hard, and the next thing he knew he was plunged up to his neck in boiling water.

Mikkel leapt up, nearly slipping and cracking his head open on the stones. He was in a hot spring and steam already rose from his pinked skin. Pain radiated from his feet as they rapidly changed temperature, and he rubbed savagely at the maddening gooseflesh itching its way over his skin. He said some words his mother would have smacked him for, then told Bjørn, “Next time, do that gradually.”

The rime’s eyes were extremely interested in his groin. “They’re not scrunched up anymore.”

“They were cold,” Mikkel said, stiffly cupping his hands around the valuable extremities in question. “They get scared when they’re cold. Now they’re brave again.”

“Oh.” His brow furrowed slightly. “I see.”

“I’m joking,” Mikkel said as he slowly lowered himself back into the water. It wasn’t quite as hot as he’d first thought, but it was still a lot to handle all at once. “Mostly.”

“Ah.”

At last, Mikkel managed a smile. “Thank you for saving me once again.”

Bjørn crossed his arms over his chest. “You should have listened to me.”

Mikkel’s smile faded. “Yes. I should have. I’m sorry.” He looked down at the steaming water, then back up to Bjørn, mind made up. “I’m sorry for the way I acted, too. I couldn’t decide if I trusted you, or if I felt strange because you’re a rime. But I don’t care now. You saved me more today than most humans ever will, and you deserve respect.”

To his delight, Bjørn smiled faintly. “Are we still friends, then?”

Mikkel returned the smile. “If you’ll have me.”

“I will,” Bjørn replied, with a spark in his eye that almost truck Mikkel as flirtatious. This made him wonder about the fact that he was naked. Yes, it was irrelevant in life-or-death situations, but still. The rime didn’t take mates or have sex. Yet Bjørn had _that_ look in his eye. Did he want something more than friendship? Was that even possible, between humans and rime? He was certainly attractive, beautiful, perfect . . .

 _Get yourself together. This is about helping Tino._ Mikkel raked his fingers through his hair, pushing the locks from his forehead, and took stock of the dark cavern he’d found himself in. The entrance was at least twice his height, so a large amount of the floor was dusted with snow. The rest, however, was carpeted with grasses and flowers. The entrance allowed sunlight to reach them and the cave itself protected them from the elements. All the flora in this land was hardy, but flowers tended to die with summer. The fact that these were still here, at least a dozen varieties, was little more than a miracle.

Then again, Mikkel had seen plenty of miracles since meeting Bjørn. It felt as if this morning had  been years ago. Mikkel had never been so close to so many different deaths. It made him feel rather lighthearted to consider it. _I could have drowned. I could have bled out. I could have broken my neck._ And what had come between him and the dark, every time?

Mikkel smiled at Bjørn again. “I think I have the feeling back in my toes. I hate to put the damp clothes on, but we can’t make a fire . . . unless you can magick one?”

Bjørn blinked. “No. I can’t do that.”

“Didn’t think so. That’s okay.” He stood up as slowly as he’d sunk in, easing his body to the chill of the evening air.

Bjørn’s eyes started to devour his body again, then sought Mikkel’s gaze instead. “Do you want me to look away?”

“. . . No. You don’t have to.” Mikkel found himself flexing a little. No one, aside from Berwald and Tino, had seen him naked, but for whatever reason it didn’t feel vulnerable or embarrassing for Bjørn to see him this way. It just felt . . . normal. No big deal. He knew he wouldn’t be judged for his body. In fact, judging by the slight dilation of the rime’s pupils, he actually appreciated the sight. And that was a nice thought, indeed.

 _Tino,_ he reminded himself.

Mikkel tugged on his clothes, suppressing a shudder at the uncomfortable feeling of the cold material clinging to his skin. He pushed it from his mind and spread his hands. “Which flower did we come here for?”

Bjørn stepped gingerly through the bed of flowers. Mikkel studied him, his hesitant posture, the nervous shadow in his eyes. That look just brought Mikkel back to his shared suspicion with Berwald, but if he had learned anything it was that Bjørn was to be trusted, one way or another.

At last, Bjørn stooped and plucked a small, round-petaled purple flower. “This one.”

Mikkel stepped over to take it and carefully tuck it into his tunic’s inner pocket. Then he leant down to pick a golden blossom and tucked it behind Bjørn’s ear. He grinned. “Wow. You look good in bright, happy colors.”

“Rime don’t have much call for bright and happy,” Bjørn remarked, suddenly pensive.

“Well.” Mikkel gave him a chuck under the chin. “Maybe you can be different.”

Bjørn smiled up at him, but there was still sadness in his eyes. “We must go. The storm is coming.”

 

PART VI

They walked into a whiteout.

“Bjørn,” Mikkel called, head down as he acted as a windbreak for the smaller man, “I hope you can sense where the pass is, because I’m pretty sure I’m lost.”

“This way,” the rime said, his voice surprisingly solid when he raised it over the howling wind. They were holding hands, both so they wouldn’t get lost and so Bjørn would know when Mikkel stumbled. After the trials of the day, his human body was reaching its limit. “We will find a cave and then you can rest.”

“I like the sound of that,” Mikkel said, soldiering on through snow that was building disconcertingly fast. The weather could change in an instant this time of year. Madness, Berwald had said. Mikkel agreed with him now. He just had to believe that this rime would get them out of this mess. Mikkel had never enjoyed taking orders, but now he was happy to focus only on putting one foot in front of the other. He was fairly certain that was happening. He’d lost the feeling in his feet a while ago.

His stomach was empty; he could certainly feel that. The thought of the ruined meat and tinder on the lake was too dismal to hold in his mind. “Bjørn,” he shouted, “tell me about rime.”

“What about them?” came the confused response.

“Anything. What you do for fun. Your favorite color. Anything you can think of.”

“We don’t have a lot of fun. Fun isn’t important to us. We don’t run and jump and laugh like humans do.”

“Why not?”

“What?”

“Why not?”

“Oh. I don’t know. We would rather observe quietly. We watch the snowflakes dance and the clouds travel and we listen to the stars sing and the stones hum. We feel the world around us. We feel everything except cold and warmth.”

Mikkel lifted his head at that, taken from the words that enraptured him just as much now as the rime stories did when he was a boy. “You can’t feel warmth?”

“No. I can feel the air on my skin and I can sense the messages it carries of things far away and things soon to come, but I cannot feel if it is warm.”

Mikkel felt a sharp pang of sympathy, because what was better than the simplest joy of being bundled up in someone’s arms, cozy and warm? Still, it must have been incredible to be so connected to the things around him. “We navigate by the stars, but I’ve never heard one sing.” A small pause. “We believe they’re souls of people who have died. Some people say they’re windows of houses shining up there. I guess I believe that, I don’t know. It’s nice, thinking of lost loved ones waiting for you. It makes death seem not quite so bad.”

Bjørn couldn’t know it, but this was the most Mikkel had spoken about death since his parents passed. He hated morbid thoughts, was terrified to the point of breathlessness of thinking he might one day be an old wrinkled man slipping away in his sleep. _But it’s peaceful that way,_ Tino had said, the one time Mikkel voiced his concern. He didn’t think it was peaceful at all. If he was bested in battle or taken by nature at least he had fought and been found wanting. Where was the honor in dying an aged husk?

“That’s now what rime believe,” Bjørn said, and Mikkel appreciated his choice not to outright debunk the stars as he’d scorned the belief in gods.

“I don’t want to talk about death anymore,” Mikkel said, because he didn’t.

“Alright.” The rime was quiet for several steps, then said, “Blue.”

“What?”

“My favorite color is blue. Light blue. Like your eyes.”

Mikkel smiled to himself. “I’m partial to your eyes, myself.”

There was no verbal response, but Bjørn squeezed his hand through his glove.

At last, after Mikkel had fallen thrice to his knees and dragged himself back up with the assistance of Bjørn, they reached the pass. It was impossible to see through the blizzard, but the wind changed as they made their way through the narrow gap between the mountains, shifting from a thin cry to a high keening wail. Mikkel hated that all he could hear was grief. Winter had always been the gloomiest time of year to him. No new life, no color. Yet the rime were creatures who embodied the cold.

“Do you like winter?” Mikkel asked, between bouts of pushing through knee-high snow.

“Do you like air?” Bjørn asked. His hands were on Mikkel’s back now, urging him onward and holding him up as they shuffled along.

“We need air.”

“We need winter, too. It’s part of life.”

This wisdom rubbed Mikkel the wrong way. “But winter is cruel. It kills without caring. Even healthy people struggle to survive.”

“It’s needed,” Bjørn insisted. “Winter is a time of rest.”

“Rest?” Mikkel scoffed. “The village has to work hard through autumn and winter or we’ll freeze and starve. Even summer is spent collecting food to be stored for winter. If we didn’t have winter, we would be much happier.”

“What would you do instead?”

Mikkel’s brow furrowed. “Well, er, I don’t know. Have fun, I suppose. We would find something good to do.”

“Or something bad,” Bjørn remarked.

Mikkel didn’t feel like arguing morals with someone who wasn’t human; there would always be bad people, no matter what happened, and he’d come to terms with that long ago. When he had Berwald and Tino, nothing else mattered. But now things were changing. “Winter means death. That’s why I don’t like it. You don’t eat or feel cold, so you probably can’t understand.”

“I can’t,” Bjørn agreed. “I know better. Winter is when the world rests. The soil sleeps. If you tried to grow your food all year, the soil would turn to dust and you would have to go somewhere else. If not for winter, you _would_ starve.”

It made sense, though Mikkel didn’t like to admit it. For the first time, it occurred to him to ask: “Why are you so wise? How old are you?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never counted my years.”

That was an even stronger jolt. How could you not care about your own age? “Are you . . . thirty?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps.”

“A hundred?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“How long do rime live?”

But Bjørn’s response was stolen by the wind, which suddenly opened up again and hit Mikkel with such strength he was almost knocked over. It could only mean one thing. They had made it back to the home side of the pass. Their journey was nearly over.

Mikkel’s legs could never carry him all the way back to the village, however, so they hugged the sheer base of the mountain until they found a suitable cave: one with a small opening to block most of the wind but enough space inside to lie down and sleep. Bjørn crawled inside first, then Mikkel. They worked together to scrape snow in place to seal the entrance, then sat back beside each other, catching their breath. It was dark and hardly warm, but it was shelter.

When Bjørn heard the sounds of Mikkel shucking off his clothes he asked, “Why are you doing that?”

“Because it’s easier to share body heat without clothes,” Mikkel replied. The first time he’d done this with Berwald had been awkward, but most of it had just been the debate about who should be holding who. Berwald won in the end, but only because he had more chest hair at the time. Mikkel didn’t doubt that Bjørn was completely smooth, everywhere . . .

“I don’t think I have body heat,” Bjørn said.

“Let’s find out,” Mikkel said, already shivering.

After a bit of fumbling and shifting, they spooned on the rough floor of the cave, Mikkel’s arms tight around Bjørn. To his utter delight, the rime was not cold, at least not outwardly. He wasn’t really any temperature, actually, but the longer Mikkel held him the more he was sure that Bjørn was radiating his own body heat back at him like sunlight bouncing off snow. Soon Mikkel eased out a sigh, relaxing into the embrace.

“Is it alright?” Bjørn asked, actually nervous.

“Yes,” Mikkel replied. “It’s great. Thank you.”

After a moment of shared breaths, Bjørn said, “I’ve never been this close to someone.”

Mikkel felt their bodies together, so many maddening points of contact and one extremely maddening spot he was doing his best not to think about. “I haven’t, either. Not like this.”

He remembered that flash of flirtation, all the little smiles. Did he even dare to hope that Bjørn might want him?

The rime rolled over to face him. Mikkel held his breath, wondering what that face looked like in the dark. So close he could faintly feel him exhale . . .

“Why are you afraid of death?” Bjørn asked.

Mikkel recoiled slightly. “That is not something I want to talk about. Especially right now.”

“Rime don’t fear it,” Bjørn told him. “We don’t consider it death, as humans do. Whether we are killed by hunters or die when our time comes, we all become snow. We are this form, and then we are another. We don’t call this death, just as we don’t call winter freezing or spring melting death. It’s only change, nothing more. Not something to be afraid of, Mick.”

The fallen-snow rasp of his voice and the gentle words wrapped themselves around Mikkel’s heart. So matter-of-fact, yet an entirely new light in his eyes.

“I—I never thought about it like that,” he mumbled, almost numb with it. If it was that simple, just a change, then maybe . . . maybe he could . . . He took a steadying breath, resolve hardened. “Bjørn,” he said, “what makes rime weep? You said you couldn’t choose to do it. So what makes it happen?”

Bjørn went very, very still in his arms. Then, in a voice so soft Mikkel could hardly hear it, “The death of someone we love. That is the only way.”

Mikkel knew, then, knew the little voice in the back of his head had been right all along. Perhaps Berwald was right. He’d known, yet he’d still come all this way. A fool indeed. “But the hunters get tears.”

“No. They think they do. They tie rime up and hang them over fires and they slice blades into us and they rip out our hair, and it does make us cry, but the tears are worthless. They will heal no one. A tear without love will give no miracle.”

He was shaking with bitter rage and sadness. Mikkel held him closer. “Then why do people still believe and trade for the tears if they don’t work?”

Now Bjørn’s voice was pensive. “People will do anything if they are afraid of death. Especially someone else’s.”

Mikkel knew for sure. He smiled ruefully, but no one could see it. _I’m sorry,_ he thought, but no one could hear it. Then he pressed a kiss to Bjørn’s forehead. “None of this would have happened,” he rumbled, the good and the bad, “if I hadn’t met you. I’m glad I did.”

“Mick,” Bjørn said, an almost pained whisper.

Mikkel let their noses brush. “Do you want this?”

But they could both feel their desire was shared, and before either of them knew it they were moving together, moaning and crying out as loud as they wanted, thrusting with animal ferocity and grace, all of it drowned by the wind and the dark so it was nothing but feeling, and as Mikkel gave himself over to his gorgeous winter prince he knew this perfect time would be the first and last.

 

PART VII

The next morning, Mikkel awoke to silence and pain. He shifted, wanting to ease the pressure on his wounded arm and stretch the pulled muscles in his legs, and froze when Bjørn made a soft sound. The rime—his rime, a bittersweet thought—had trusted him enough to fall asleep with him, even though he could have stayed awake all night without consequence. Mikkel’s weary heart was warmed.

The night before felt like a dream. He had done something that some people would have said was akin to lying with a dog. _No._ He had no time for such people and their backward thoughts. Bjørn was not human, but he was still a person, a beautiful person who Mikkel wanted to have in his bed, at his table, so he could get to know him and make him happy, make him laugh. _Maybe you can be different._

But he couldn’t be. Mikkel knew that now.

He disengaged himself from Bjørn and clumsily pulled his trousers and tunic back on. Light was peeking through thin arms of snow in their seal; Bjørn’s face was just as perfect in his sleep as it was in waking. Mikkel hated to fracture the peace and bring them closer to the fate he was trying not to fear, but Tino was still suffering. Mikkel nudged the rime, kissed his temple. “Wake, my love.”

He’d always wanted to say that to someone. He’d never imagined it taking place in a cave, but better a cave than never at all.

Bjørn didn’t stir or yawn. His eyes just flicked open, bright and sparkling as always. Mikkel couldn’t help it—now that he was allowed to kiss the inhumanly perfect face, he couldn’t be expected to resist the temptation. He kissed his nose, then his lips. Bjørn returned it, both of them inexperienced and enthusiastic. Mikkel couldn’t get over how soft all of the rime was, like lamb ears and flower petals and summer mist. If he could have, he would have stayed here with him forever, lost himself in those eyes and spent the rest of his days learning to see the world like they did.

_Tino. Berwald._

He knew that wasn’t how his story would end.

Their journey back toward the village was quiet. Accustomed to his bed, Mikkel didn’t feel well-rested, but he also felt a not-unpleasant detachment from both the outside and his body. For the first time, he thought, _This won’t last forever._ The permanence of non-permanence had finally sunken in. Each breath was at once a blessing, a curse, and nothing at all. Nothing to celebrate, nothing to dread, nothing to grieve. Just something to accept.

When the village was within sight, Mikkel slowed to a halt. They were near the place they had fought the hunters yesterday, though the blood and the dog had long since been buried in snow. The hunters would train a new beast, keep murdering rime until the demand stopped or all the rime died out. The latter was more probable, of course. Mikkel wondered if he should have killed the hunters. There would be no punishment, now. Perhaps he could have saved more rime, if he hadn’t had mercy on them. Or perhaps new hunters would just spring up in their places. Inevitable.

“Bjørn,” Mikkel said quietly, “you said you can sense things soon to come. Does that mean you can see the future?”

The slight panic in those violet eyes, so genuine, so pure, was all he needed to know. “No, I don’t really see anything. I just . . . feel that things may turn out one way or another.”

Mikkel tipped up his chin, taking a clean breath of air and enjoying the endless blue above. He was pleased at the lack of clouds. He’d always loved sunny days. “Did you know we would meet?”

“No. But when I saw you . . .” He opened his mouth, closed it, then said, “I knew you were special. That was why I saved you. You felt special to me.”

There was a word his grandmother once used, one Mikkel had not understood when he heard it as a boy, that now bloomed into his mind for the first time in decades. _Soulmates._

“I’m sorry it happened so fast,” Mikkel said, removing the blade from his belt. The others were lost on the lake, but it didn’t matter now. Less and less mattered by the second. “I would have spent so much more time with you. Maybe we could have changed things.”

“Something always changes,” Bjørn said, eyeing the blade uneasily. “Mick—”

“It’s not true, is it?” Mikkel interrupted, finally looking down at him. “The flower.”

The rime blinked, caught off his guard, then grew defensive. “It’s an ancient method—”

Mikkel cupped his cheek with his free hand. “You’re a terrible liar, my love.”

Fear and sorrow sparked painfully in Bjørn’s eyes, and he looked again at the blade. “You said you trusted me.”

“And I did. And you did just what I asked you to do. You found a way to help my friend.” His voice was trembling, but he pushed through. He could not be a coward now. A warrior did not shy away from the end of his quest. “Do you love me, Bjørn?”

He stared up into Mikkel’s eyes, his flawless face contorted with terrible epiphany. “No.”

Mikkel let his forehead rest against Bjørn’s, a sad smile twisting his lips as his voice thinned to a whisper. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Mick.” Bjørn kissed him, desperate. “Please.”

Mikkel returned the kiss, just a chaste brush of the lips. “Save him for me.” He straightened his back, lifted his weapon. “I’ll see you soon.”

He shoved the blade into his chest.

Mikkel dropped to the ground, his sword wedged to the hilt inside him. Bjørn reached for him, but it was too late to catch him. The rime fell to his knees, holding Mikkel as close as he could across his lap. He had known this moment would come, had waited for it all his life, but there was no way to take it with grace. He cried out, then wailed, burning alive with the misery coursing through him. He had loved this human for years before they met, and he would love him still, forever. He had waited so long, and Mikkel had been taken from him so swiftly. He had tried, but he could not prepare himself for the heartbreak of it all.

This was what Bjørn had not told him. Change always happened . . . but sometimes it was agonizing, and there was nothing to do but grieve.

Bjørn’s sadness brimmed and overflowed and, with a scream of pain like he had never felt, a frozen teardrop fell down his cheek. It landed on Mikkel’s bloodied chest, and Bjørn picked it up before it could be stained. A perfect ice droplet, shimmering in the sunlight like a diamond.

Bjørn closed his eyes and pressed his cheek to Mikkel’s, then pulled back with a jolt when he realized it was wet. Did he have blood on his face? Bjørn looked down and saw clear, warm tears trailing down Mikkel’s face from empty blue eyes. _Oh,_ he thought. _So that’s what they look like._ Fitting that the tears of rime would never melt or shatter, while human sadness was liquid, here and gone, as short-lasting as their lives.

That night, after the tear had been slipped between the dying man’s lips and the mysterious cloaked figure had departed, Tino stepped outside with Berwald holding a supportive arm round his waist. Though it was joyous that Tino’s health had been restored, neither of them smiled. They walked in somber silence to the outskirts of the village, where many had gathered around a great smoking pyre. It was a tragedy, they all said, for a warrior to die so young. No one knew the truth of what had happened except Berwald, Tino, and . . .

A chill breeze swept past them, swirling around the flames and—despite the clear, starry sky—carrying a weightless swarm of snowflakes. All at once a large piece of wood collapsed into the fire and a plume of smoke and ashes rose up, billowing high into the air as if glad to be freed. Berwald and Tino watched in awe as the ice crystals danced around and around with the ashes until they sealed together, fluttering and lace-edged, and drifted upward, borne along the trail of moonlight to the cold and quiet above.

 

_. . . Of quiet birds in circled flight._

_I am the soft stars that shine at night._

_Do not stand at my grave and cry._

_I am not there. I did not die._

_—Mary Elizabeth Frye_


End file.
